James Barnes, Agent of SHIELD :: Deleted Scenes
by Kala Sathinee
Summary: Three scenes that didn't make the final cut in James Barnes, Agent of SHIELD.
1. Soldier's Poem

_Scene I:_ Soldier's Poem

* * *

 **September 12, 1943, South of Azzano, Italy**

The third thump sent a shockwave through the soft earth on either side of him. Soil tumbled down over the lip of the trench and Bucky tried not to acknowledge the sharp edge of panic that thrummed along his nerves. The fear that one of those shells could bury him alive was a visceral burning in his chest. He hated the trenches more than he hated anything else about this godforsaken war. But he had men to think about; men who were relying on him. He was the sergeant and he had to keep his head.

The squad he was in charge of had changed over the course of the last two days. The Italians had retreated but German forces had poured into the gap in the line and shattered the advance of the 107th. Bucky had lost his radioman that morning and would no longer contact Colonel Phillips or anyone at the SSR basecamp. Half the men he'd started with were dead and half of those who remained had scattered to the winds. In their place he now had what remained of a Negro unit and the battered survivors of a front-line platoon of Japanese-Americans. He knew there were British paratroops nearby but he had no way to contact them or even be sure of their position. The only member of his original command still with him was Corporal Timothy Dugan.

"Well at least the night's not boring. Right, Sarge?" Dugan remarked.

"Oh, yeah. Thank goodness for that," Bucky returned, dry and snarky. He checked his remaining ammunition and resisted the urge to pull a face. Things had looked a lot brighter that morning, no pun intended. Thankfully they seemed to have acquired the most level-headed person Bucky had ever met in one Private Gabriel Jones.

"Hey, it could be worse. We could be in Russia," Jones said. Dugan snorted and Bucky glanced over at Gabe.

"If _that_ is all you can come up with as a silver lining we really _are_ screwed." As if to emphasize his point, another shell exploded nearby, showering them all in dirt. Pebbles bounced off Bucky's helmet with musical pings and his heart leapt into his throat again. "We really need to take out those mortars."

"Try finding one," Dugan yelled over another explosion. "Unless one of you guys sees real well in the dark."

Bucky laughed. "Yeah, I wish."

"We could try making a run for it." Gabe offered. "Use the craters as cover."

It sounded like suicide but anything was better than sitting in the trench waiting to die. Might as well do something the Germans wouldn't expect.

"You ever done that before?" Bucky asked.

"Once or twice," Gabe replied. "Seems to throw 'em for a loop. Mortars don't do well against moving targets."

"Machine guns do," Dugan added.

Bucky shrugged. "They can't see any better than we can. And I haven't heard a machine gun in over an hour. Maybe they're out of ammo."

"Or they're waiting for a target."

Bucky couldn't argue with Dugan's logic, and he knew the safe thing to do was to wait out the shelling. But they were losing men and morale was slipping. Somebody had to do something, and _he_ was the sergeant. And if it meant getting out of the fucking trench then he was willing to risk it.

"You don't have to come with me."

Dugan sighed. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Sit on my ass?"

"Command the squad if I get blown to bits."

Dugan slung his shotgun over his shoulders and strapped on the pack with their ammo. "And let you take all the glory? I don't think so. Not like we're doing much commanding without a radio."

Gabe pulled a stick from the mud at his feet and held it up over the lip of the trench with Dugan's bowler hat on the end. Nothing happened and Gabe grinned.

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Bucky replied.

Dugan snatched back his hat and slammed it down on his helmetless head. "What the hell; might as well live a little."

Bucky counted down from three and on his "Go!" they vaulted over the lip of the trench and ran. Bucky's heart raced the whole way. Mortar shells screamed past them and there was no way to tell how close they were until they exploded. It was nearly impossible to see the ground under his feet in the dark but he grew thankful for the blackness when they reached the first shell crater without so much as a shout from the Germans.

They were all breathing hard when they collapsed in the relative safety of the impromptu foxhole. Bucky's skin buzzed with adrenaline. He hated this. He hated all of it. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to his job on the docks. He wanted to go back to Steve.

"Okay, I'll admit," Dugan panted. "That was kinda fun."

 _I knew he was fuckin' insane_ , Bucky thought, letting his head drop back against the cool earth. Beneath the acrid stench of gunpowder, blood, and his own sweat, there was the crisp, wet scent of cool air. He did his best to concentrate on that, to let it anchor him in some semblance of reality.

"Ready to do it again?" Gabe asked, far too enthusiastic. So much for level-headed.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

A few crater hops later and they found a radio. By some miracle, the shrapnel that had killed its carrier had left it intact. Gabe got it working in short order and Bucky was able to order the rest of their men to follow them up. Unfortunately the charge caught the attention of the Germans and flares started going up. In their phosphorescent glare Bucky could see all the way to the German lines. A few quick grenade tosses took out a couple of the mortars, but seeing the Germans meant the Germans could see them. Not long after the flares lit the field, machine guns roared to life.

Charging across the field, Bucky tried to keep his attention on the ground ahead of him. There wasn't much he could do to dodge bullets; there was no point even trying. All he could really do was hope to get to the next crater without tripping and falling. Or running into another soldier.

Grenades went off nearby and there were screams, though it was hard to tell whose they were. Something nearby cracked and spat a bright flash of sparks. Bullets whipped past his ears, one lodging in the soil dangerously close to his left foot, but he was there. He dove into the crater, Dugan crashing down right after him. Gabe joined them a second later. Bucky tried to look up over the edge but bullets thumped down around him and he ducked down again.

"There's got to be at least five more companies out there," Dugan called over the din.

"Radio B Company. Tell 'em we need cover." Bucky chanced another quick glance up.

"That might be tough." Gabe hefted his radio up—the one they'd only had for half an hour. It was belching smoke and Bucky could clearly see the ragged hole in the side. The pack had clearly saved Gabe's life, but it would never work again. _God damn it. Not again._

"Bucky! Behind you!"

He whirled at Dugan's words, nearly taking shrapnel to the face as a mortar round went off almost on top of them. Dust flared in Bucky's eyes and Dugan's hat blew clean off his head. Fighting the dizzying surge of adrenaline, he raised his rifle and forced his eyes to sweep the field. Machine gun muzzle-flash lit the German line clear as day. They'd parked themselves up on the next hill. Streaming down the face of the hill was a sizeable pack of infantrymen.

"Here they come!" Bucky roared, hoping the men around him would hear. He tilted his head, settled himself behind his scope, and opened fire. His rifle kicked against his shoulder as enemy after enemy dropped. Each squeeze of the trigger sent another Wehrmacht soldier tumbling to the ground. It wasn't something Bucky was particularly proud of, but he consoled himself with the thought that any one of those men would have shot him just as easily. But no matter how many he downed, more swarmed down the hill.

"Fall back!" Someone yelled from somewhere to Bucky's left. He was tempted to order them to hold, but he waited. There was always someone yelling to fall back and people very rarely listened. There was no sense countermanding an order that he himself might give in a moment. He glanced up, surveyed the field, then returned to his scope. He was taking aim at the torso of the nearest German when the young man erupted in blue light and vanished. The man next to him suffered the same, screaming in pain.

Bucky looked up, watching as beams of light flared rapid-fire across the hillside. The Germans who'd been stampeding down the slope now turned back, retreating with desperate shouts. The beams mowed them down. Actinic flashes lit the night as soldier after soldier was reduced to ash. Somewhere nearby Bucky could hear the clanking sound of a weapon firing, though it didn't sound like any weapon _he'd_ ever heard. All around him, Americans were rising from the safety of the craters, cheering like _they'd_ been the ones to drive the Wehrmacht back.

"What the hell was that?" Dugan asked.

Bucky didn't have an answer for him. The fire had come from beyond another hill and in the inky darkness there was no seeing that far. Reluctantly, he stood and stepped clear of their meagre shelter, Dugan and Gabe following. More blue burst across the field, vaporizing a handful of Germans who'd waited too long to flee. As their screams died away they were replaced by a low, throbbing rumble. The sound settled in Bucky's chest, pounding like the growl of a distant rockslide or an oncoming stampede. Along with it came the squealing of grinding gears and the rattle of treads.

Bucky's tour in North Africa and been short but he knew the sound of a tank. He could tell a Sherman from a Panzer by engine sounds alone. This was neither. It sounded bigger. When it crested the hill, all Bucky could do was stare.

"That looks... New."

The monstrosity was like something out of a dime novel. Towering and solid, it would have dwarfed any tank, even a T-34, easily. He'd never seen anything as big. Armour plate like fortress walls, wheels taller than a man and treads as thick as his hand was wide... It was like looking at a dragon or a castle on wheels. It didn't look friendly and whatever hope the Germans' sudden retreat had given him fled, leaving a twisting, leaden dread in its place. Like some great, cyclopean eye, the gun turret on top of the beast turned to face them. Something in its depths began to hum, like it was charging.

Bucky didn't hesitate. "Down!" He dove back into cover as the world disintegrated. Light stabbed at the back of his eyes, a roar like a thousand thunderclaps deafened him. Something—a shockwave maybe—kicked him through the air and into the far wall of the crater. The air left his lungs and he gasped to get it back as great clods of dirt pelted him. _So much for the enemy of my enemy is my friend._

"It's HYDRA!" someone yelled from another crater.

Bucky shook himself, tried to clear his head, and stumbled back to the front. The line had opened fire but every round bounced harmlessly off the tank's hide. He cleared his throat.

"Someone get on radio to HQ. Get me somethin' to throw at this guy."


	2. Song of the Caged Bird

_Scene II:_ Song of the Caged Bird

* * *

 **September 19, 1943, HYDRA base in the Austrian Alps**

It had been stupid, really. If Barnes had known what was good for him he'd have stayed out of it. He didn't even know the guy he'd stepped in front of, but he'd done it anyway. He'd caught Lohmer's wrist like it was second nature. The steel in his gaze might have been more impressive if Dugan hadn't been too busy wanting to slam his head against the nearest wall. He knew he could be a stubborn, block-headed fool but Barnes took the cake as the stubbornest, most block-headed fool he'd ever met.

Predictably, the SS officer hadn't taken it well. The cane that had been aimed for Private whatever-his name-was' head now cracked down on Bucky's. It staggered him, but he was back up in a second. _Definitely a thick skull._

The fight had been quick and dirty. Barnes had aimed for kidneys and knees and ankles. He'd kneed Lohmer in the balls and had been aiming an elbow at his throat when HYDRA grunts in thick black body armour had pulled him away. Lohmer's cane repaid every blow several times over. Barnes spit blood in Lohmer's face when the Nazi leaned in to look him in the eye. He looked far from finished and Dugan resisted the urge to give a rebel yell.

The urge hadn't lasted long. Barnes had been dragged off to one of the darker wings of the compound and they didn't see him after that. The worry that he was dead sat in Dugan's chest like a lead brick. How old was the kid? Twenty-six? Lohmer usually brought the victims of his wrath back to their cells within a few hours, but it had been two days. They couldn't have found out he was Jewish, could they?

Dugan tried to make himself comfortable, leaning against the bars of the cell. His ass was numb from sitting on concrete but it wasn't like he had much of an option. The little circular cell was cramped enough as it was without him lying down. Gabe had managed to curl into a comfortable enough position to sleep; lucky bastard. So had the French Resistance fighter they were packed in with. Gabe said his name was Jacques Dernier. Guy either didn't speak any English or had chosen not to. Sharing Dugan's sleeplessness was their other new friend—British paratrooper Lieutenant James Montgomery Falsworth. He was a steely sort of guy and gave the impression of a wolf watching for weakness in a herd. Dugan wondered what would happen if Lohmer showed that weakness. Monty looked like a man with training. The scary kind of training.

It had taken them all a while to get along, admittedly. Dugan wouldn't call himself blameless; not by a long shot. They'd all been tired, angry, and scared when they were first dumped into the sad little dungeon and they'd taken it out on each other, as stupid as that was. But now, after a week together, they'd calmed somewhat and developed a tenuous respect for each other. Dugan might have chanced calling at least Monty a friend.

'Course, it had been Bucky who'd initially wrangled them into a kind of peace. It was the one thing they could all agree on; they all cared about the Sarge. He was a good guy. Dugan would have followed him into hell if he'd asked, but at the same time, he wanted to protect him, to shield him like a god damn mother hen. There was an innocence to him and Dugan was reminded of his kid brothers; the thought of either one of _them_ trapped in this place horrified him.

It was hard to tell time in the camp. There was dawn, when they'd be pulled from their cells to begin work in HYDRA's munitions factory. There was evening, when they'd be packed back in the cells for the night. The Polish and Russian prisoners who comprised the night shift did it in reverse. You could tell noon by the position of the sun or the change of the guards. Other than that, good luck. So Dugan had no idea what time it was when the door to the prison was opened and two guards in their shiny black HYDRA body armour stomped in. Their jackboots echoed in the concrete space and all around him Dugan could see vindictive glances.

As they neared the cell it became clear that they were dragging something between them. At first he assumed it was a burlap sack. Maybe the bastards had decided to finally allow the distribution of Red Cross packages. As prisoners of war, they _were_ entitled to them. It was technically against the rules to deny them, but this was HYDRA. Somehow Dugan figured they didn't care much for the rules. As it turned out, it wasn't a burlap sack they were dragging. It was a man; unconscious, bloody, and bruised.

The guards stopped in front of their cell and unlatched the door. Dugan had been trying to look uninterested but he recognized the head of wavy brown hair and the tatty green shirt.

The HYDRA goons tossed Bucky into the cell with no more care than they would have afforded a sandbag. He landed, limp and boneless, on Gabe's legs and both Jones and Dernier woke with a start. The guard who kicked Bucky's leg out of the way of the door spat a harsh " _Tunte_ ," before slamming it shut. Dugan had no idea what it meant, but he didn't much care. All he cared about was that Barnes was still breathing.

The moment the guards were gone the four of them converged. Dugan turned Bucky over, slow and careful. The sergeant didn't stir but he didn't start bleeding either, which Dugan figured was a good sign. Blotchy, purple bruises ran up his arms and over the portion of his chest that they could see through his shirt collar. The marks on his throat looked like they'd been left by a hand that had choked him. His right wrist was swollen and so was the side of his head. His lip was split, his nose broken, his scalp bleeding somewhere above his hairline, and he was sporting a rather impressive shiner on the left side. The way he was breathing made Dugan wonder if he had a broken rib or two.

"Well, I see the Geneva conventions are out the window here," Falsworth noted with dry distaste.

Dugan's eyes settled on a pair of patches sewn to Bucky's shirt and pants. A pair of simple, inverted triangles cut from cheap pink cloth were attached with clumsy stitches. He'd seen similar patches on the shirts of some of the Slavic prisoners—mostly yellow stars with ' _Jude'_ written inside. Those were easy to figure out, but he didn't have the foggiest idea what pink triangles meant.

" _Merd_ ," Dernier breathed, looking around in the darkness as if they were all sharing some dangerous secret and he didn't want to be overheard. The look on Falsworth's face was haunted. Dugan shared a glance with Gabe, who shrugged.

"Okay, I get the idea we missed something."

Monty took a deep breath. "Those triangles are what the Nazis use to identify homosexual prisoners." He let the words sink in a moment. "I've seen these before. When I was first captured there were a couple of Canadians who got them. They were chained up outside, hosed down with cold water, and left out overnight to freeze."

Dernier began to speak and after a pause, Gabe translated.

"Jacques says he's seen men killed by their fellow prisoners 'cause of those." He swallowed. "He's never seen anyone last a week with them on."

"If he goes out on the factory floor with those on he's a dead man," Monty said.

"Well how the hell could they possibly know if he's queer or not?"

"They've had him for two days," Gabe replied. "Who knows what they tortured out of him. Maybe he talked in his sleep."

"Shit." Dugan pinched the bridge of his nose. This complicated things. _He_ didn't give a damn what the Sarge did his spare time, but he knew darn well there were those who _would._ He'd be damned if he let their own men do the Germans work for them. And he wasn't about to lose the kid to something stupid like this.

"He's still the sergeant you knew," Monty said. "Nothing's changed—"

"I know that," Dugan snapped. "You think I care if he's queer?"

"It was a possibility."

"I'm an American; I'm not a bigot."

Monty held up his hands. "There are bigots on my side of the Pond, too. I wasn't trying to make assumptions."

Dugan looked at Gabe and the man shrugged. "I know what it's like being sneered at while you're walkin' down the street. Neither of you treated me any different. Why wouldn't I return the favour?"

A brief silence fell, punctuated with the distant snores of their fellow prisoners. Another whispered conversation could be heard somewhere behind Monty, too far away to make out words. Dugan took a deep breath. What the hell were they going to do? It wasn't like they could break him out, and they couldn't watch him every minute of every day. The factory was a big place. They couldn't change the fact that Lohmer knew. Their only option was to stop anyone else from finding out. The damn patches had to go.

"All right, anyone have something we can rip stitches with?"

Monty started rifling through his pockets. Gabe did the same, translating to Dernier as he did so. The Frenchman nodded emphatically, pulling off his shoe and lifting up the loose sole. Underneath was a small square of leather and between the layers were the world's tiniest sewing implements. Dernier slipped out a small grey cylinder and removed the cap. A stitch-ripper.

Damn. The resistance really _did_ think of everything.

Jacques shuffled over to Bucky's side, stitch-ripper in hand, and went to work on the patches. The clumsy stitches were easy to cut and there was little damage done to his garments. Bucky didn't even stir as he worked.

"What do we do with 'em?" Gabe asked, pocketing one of the discarded patches.

Dugan turned the other triangle over in his hands. "Chuck 'em in the blast furnace or the forge. Somewhere they'll burn."

"Lohmer still knows," Monty reminded them. "What do we do about him?"

Again, Dugan got the sense that Monty could kill Lohmer in a heartbeat given the chance. "I don't know." He glanced conspiratorially around the room. "We'll figure something out. For now let's concentrate on makin' sure the Sarge's secret stays a secret."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The next morning, Barnes was still out cold. Not even the guards giving him a swift kicking could drag him back into consciousness. Eventually the frustrated Germans relented, herding the rest of them out of the cell and leaving Bucky prone on the cold concrete.

Once out on the factory floor it was easy to make the patch disappear. There were so many options but Dugan was on furnace duty that day. In the furnace's flames the little pink triangle turned to ash in seconds. It was oddly satisfying.

Lohmer spent the whole day looking so pleased with himself that Dugan almost gave him another beating. He had the ghost of a black eye where Bucky had decked him and it was almost a shame that he couldn't have a matching one on the other side. It was tempting to remedy that.

Clearer heads prevailed. There would be time to deal with Lohmer later. For now, Dugan was a little more concerned with making sure Bucky lived long enough to see Lohmer dealt with. Stuck here, it was no easy task.


	3. Just One Yesterday

_Scene III:_ Just One Yesterday

* * *

 **February 24, 1945, Stork Club, Manhattan**

Eight o'clock came and went. Bucky didn't know what he'd been expecting; Steve just waltzing in like nothing had happened, maybe. It was stupid. Steve had been dead for over a week and yet there'd still been part of Bucky that had expected the bastard to turn up alive, haulin' ass all the way to New York. It wouldn't have been out of character. But here they were, eight fifteen and they were sitting at the bar in silence, staring into their drinks. Peggy's face was hidden behind her hair but the hunch of her shoulders and the soft sniffs told Bucky everything he needed to know. She'd been hoping for a miracle, just like he had.

"It was worth a shot," Bucky said, laying his hand over top of hers.

Peggy drew a shaky breath. "I suppose it was too much to hope he'd pull off one of his miraculous returns."

"Guess so." He swallowed, but it didn't shift the lump in his throat. He looked around the club again, some small part of him still convinced that if he just looked a little harder he'd see a familiar blond head weaving through the crowd. He knew there was no point. The hissing of the dead radio line still echoed in his ears, permanently etched in his mind. His every memory of Steve was washed over with that fucking sound. A constant reminder—an endless litany of _he's dead, he's dead, he's dead..._

He wished he'd got on that plane. He wished he'd taken that walk off the end of the HYDRA runway. He wished he'd fallen off that train. Anything but this; forever reliving those final moments in the radio room, his every waking hour haunted by that dead-air symphony.

"Thank you for sitting here with me. I..." Peggy sniffed. "I don't think I could have done this alone."

Bucky squeezed her hand even as guilt washed over him for his earlier thoughts. Suddenly it seemed rather selfish to wish his own pain over only to heap more onto a friend. A week ago it had been thoughts of what Steve would say that had kept him away from the steep drop off the mountain. Now, before he could even start contemplating the pistol in his room, the thought of Peggy sitting there, alone, gave him pause.

"Me neither," he replied, voice unsteady.

They both returned to their drinks, Bucky downing his in a gulp and motioning to the bartender to fill it again. The man gave a dubious glance but concluded, to his own confusion, that Bucky was still stone-cold sober. He had no clue how many shots of whiskey he'd had—he wasn't counting—but he knew he _should_ have been drunk by now. No such luck. He was forever doomed to be sober, apparently.

"You know you don't have to go back with us," Peggy remarked, swirling her wine. "You're free of obligation to the Army. You're home... You could stay."

"And do what?"

"Live your life. Get some normality back..."

Bucky shook his head. "There's nothin' here for me, now. I don't know that I'd do with myself anyway."

Peggy's expression was profoundly sad when she turned to meet his eyes. "What about your family? Surely—"

"I haven't talked to them yet." He swallowed his whiskey with a grimace. He knew his parents read the paper, so they had to have heard. He wasn't ready to face them. "I haven't been able to get in touch with my old friends. I... I knew him my whole life, Peggy. I don't... I don't know how to live without him."He took a breath, struggling to wrangle his emotions. "Our old apartment... It's just empty now. It's like a goddamn mausoleum. If I go back to living there I'm gonna put a gun in my mouth. And I don't want to do that." His last words were nearly a whisper.

"I don't want you to do that either." Peggy's voice had grown quiet too. She turned her hand beneath his to clasp it.

Bucky nodded. "I know. 'S why I'm still here." Peggy's grip on his hand tightened. "So I'm going back to Germany. I'm stickin' with you guys 'cause I don't know how to do anything else anymore." He could vaguely remember being the kid who took his best friends to a science fair and pretended it was a date. He could remember being the boy who cried himself to sleep the day he got his draft notice. He hadn't wanted to fight, he hadn't wanted to kill. He'd been afraid. And even now that he was good at it he still hated it. He hated watching a man drop, knowing that he would never breathe again because of the bullet Bucky had fired. He hated watching a man's eyes go blank, life rushing out of a slice in his throat that Bucky had made. They'd spent so much time talking about the blood on HYDRA's hands, but when Bucky looked at his own they were dripping—gushing—red. It always made him wonder where the line between soldier and murderer really lay. A month ago he would have taken any chance to get away from all the killing. But now every tether to his old life had been cut and he was adrift. He'd got his sergeant's stripes for being the best marksman in the group during basic—for being the most efficient murderer. And now he was afraid that that was all he was good for.

"What will you do when all this is over?"

Bucky stared at the bottom of his empty glass. "I've been trying not to think about it. Figure I'll wait and see it I actually make it to the end of the war."

Peggy nodded, as if she'd expected as much. He wondered what _she_ had planned. She seemed like the planning sort, but how could you plan ahead when there was no way to know if folks'd be interested in employing you. Bucky knew darn well that when the war ended there'd be hundreds of GIs coming home and looking for jobs and dames like Peggy would be out of luck. It wasn't fair, but then again, nothing about this war had been fair so far. Why start now?

Peggy rose from her stool. "We should get out of here before I drink myself into a stupor trying to keep up with you."

"And before I use up all my pay?"

"And that."


End file.
